


Torn in between here and running away

by pianoforeplay



Category: Men With Brooms (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pianoforeplay/pseuds/pianoforeplay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five kisses over the span of thirty-one years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torn in between here and running away

**i. 2002**

So, they have the Broom, Julie's currently halfway to the moon, Lily's six months pregnant, Neil and Joanne are engaged, his father's starting a mushroom-growing industry all by himself and _Amy_... Well.

"Cutter? Just _don't_."

Chris winces at the tone and thinks suddenly of Julie. Which, is only fair, he figures, considering they're related. Amy'd probably slap him if he knew he was making comparisons, but then, considering the fight -- the third in as many days -- he's likely to get slapped anyway. Whether it's his fault or hers, he doesn't even know anymore. Maybe both or maybe neither. Maybe it's something else completely.

When she tells him to leave, he doesn't bother to argue, just nods, grabs his jacket and heads out the door. It slams behind him and his shoulders hunch forward like a bomb's gone off and the little garden gnome by the welcome mat topples over.

He drives aimlessly for awhile, until Long Bay's an hour behind him and Toronto several more ahead of him. He thinks about not stopping because maybe this time, he can tell himself he's not running. There isn't anyone waiting at the altar for him, the stones in the bottom of the lake are there because that's where they _belong_ and not because he's hiding something, the town has its Golden Broom and his friends--

And that's where it stops, _that's_ where he knows he's only bullshitting himself and he presses on the brake and makes a three-point turn in the middle of the empty highway.

An hour and change later and he can't say exactly why he's at Lennox's apartment. Or maybe he can. Maybe he doesn't want to think about it too much.

Chris isn't surprised when Lennox answers the door in only his shower robe, the belt rope tied half-heartedly to hold it together. But, he _is_ surprised by the look Lennox gives him, eyes hard and lips drawn into a thin line. Amy's already talked to him, apparently. Chris probably shouldn't be surprised.

"Well, well, well," Lennox says, one hand on the doorknob and the other against the opposite jamb, completely blocking any hope of entry. "The prodigal son returns. Again."

Chris sighs, tips his head to the side. "Can I come in?"

"Talked to Amy," Lennox says, unmoving.

"I figured."

Lennox arches an eyebrow, like maybe he expects Chris to give him more information while standing out in the middle of the damn hall, but Chris just holds his ground and waits.

Giving a heavy sigh, Lennox finally steps back, one arm stretched out in an elaborate welcome, sarcastic to the core. Chris suppresses the desire to roll his eyes and steps inside, hands still shoved inside the pockets of his jacket. Lennox pushes past him and heads for the kitchen, emerging seconds later with two opened beer bottles. Chris takes one and nods a thanks before tipping his head back for a large swallow.

"So," Lennox says as Chris wipes the back of his wrist over his mouth. "You wanna tell me why you're here and not over at the house of the fairer Foley?"

"She told me to leave, so I did."

"Christ, Chris, she was _pissed off!_ Did you learn _nothing_ about women while you were out sowing your wild fucking oats for ten years, man? They _want_ you to argue with them when they say shit like that."

Chris almost snorts out a laugh, but instead just smiles a little and shakes his head as he looks down at the bottle in his hand.

"Look, man, this isn't funny, stop being a shitheel and--"

"Why'd you stay?" Chris doesn't plan on asking it, but once it's there, he realizes that's whole reason he's here and he suddenly _needs_ to know.

Lennox stops short, a look of complete confusion coloring his face. "Huh? What're you ta--"

"Here. In Long Bay. After we won the Broom, why didn't you go back to Toronto?"

And what Chris sees pass through Lennox's eyes then is all the answer he needs. He looks caught, guilty as sin, there's actual real _fear_ there, which Chris recognizes instantly. Because he feels it, too, buzzing hot just under his skin, needling at him. And he realizes he's been feeling it for years, even decades. He'd ignored it and ran from it, but it still hadn't gone away and know he's facing it. After twenty fucking years, he's facing it.

He doesn't wait for Lennox to try and work out a response, just closes the space between them with one step, his free hand dropping to Lennox's, fingers brushing. "There's this place in B.C., man," he says, fingers curling with Lennox's, sending a flow of heat all through him that, for once, he's refusing to ignore. "It's right on the beach, about two hours from Vancouver. Cold as hell, but it's fucking beautiful."

Some of the fear seems to slip from Lennox's eyes then, sliding into confusion even as a small grin tugs at his lips. "You trying to get me to run away with you, baby?" he asks, his voice flippant, stuck between confusion and disbelief.

Chris immediately shakes his head, suddenly a hell of a lot more serious. "Not running away." He lifts his hand then, pulling Lennox's up with it and, without even thinking, brushes a kiss over his knuckle. "Not anymore."

 

 **ii. 1991**

There are _way_ too many steps to take up to Chris's apartment. He's never really noticed it before, but there really are. And they _move_ , taunting him by being in one place and then shifting to be somewhere else right when he's trying to take a step. And they're sloped all weird so that he keeps losing his balance and having to slump against the wall for support.

Lennox doesn't seem to be having the same difficulty. Which, is probably a good thing.

He groans and then takes a slow breath before his lips curl up in a lazy smile. "Man, I'm really--"

"Shit-faced," Lennox says, cutting him off. His voice sounds strained for some reason, Chris thinks, but not unkind and he smiles warmly as he uses Lennox for support to conquer another one of those horrible steps.

It hadn't been the word he'd been thinking of, but it's close enough and he nods, smacks his lips idly. "Yeah-- yeah, that." He laughs then, quick and quiet, but it's cut short when Lennox's shoulder bumps into his side and he realizes he's on level ground again, in a hallway. Oh, hey, _his_ hallway. And his apartment's only a few feet away now. That's... that's good.

A few minutes later and they're inside. And that's even better. Lennox still has an arm around him when they stumble into the front room, but Chris manages to break away, hobbling a few feet before dropping onto the couch in a heap.

"'s a good party," he says as his eyes slip closed and _whoa_ , that's maybe not the best idea because it sends the entire room spinning around behind his eyelids. His breath catching, he forces his eyes open again only to find that Lennox has turned the light on and _shit_ , it's bright. He groans and tries to roll over, burying his face in the couch cushion even as the whole apartment dips and swirls around him.

Seconds or minutes or maybe _hours_ later, there's a hand on his shoulder and he's being pushed onto his back. He squints against the light and tries to lift a hand in rebuttal, only to feel a cool glass pressed into his palm.

"C'mon, you gotta drink some water, man."

Grunting, Chris tries to push the glass away because, really, he wants to do one of two things right now and intaking liquid of any kind is not one of them.

"Chris," Lennox's voice is a little sharper then, a little more insistent and he feels the glass nudging his hand again. "Come on, I'm serious. You show up hungover tomorrow and Julie'll have my balls in a _vice_. And, I really really like my balls, man. Really."

That makes Chris grin and he opens his eyes again slowly, just enough to see Lennox's face hovering right near his. Concerned blue eyes and disturbingly long eye lashes full lips creased into a frown.

"Mmm. I like your balls, too," he says and then lets out a low rumble of a laugh.

He doesn't catch the look on Lennox's face then, though because his eyes have slipped closed again, his hand loosely wrapped around the cool glass. But, he knows it's a second or two before Lennox speaks again.

" _Chris_."

Startled, Chris's breath catches and he blinks his eyes open again, trying to focus and not really succeeding very well. "Mmn?"

"Chris, _drink_. Shit, don't make me get a damn funnel."

Another slow smile curves Chris's lips and he shifts a little, the movement knocking some of the water onto his shirt in a wet splotch that he hardly notices. He stretches, pulls a slow breath into his lungs, feeling content and relaxed despite the swaying. "I think we should have sex."

That time, he _does_ see the look on Lennox's face, the way his eyes widen just a little, the way his pupils go a little dark, the way his mouth twitches. Chris has seen it before, has seen it while sober and he recognizes it. He's _missed_ it. His arm feels loose and heavy when he lifts it to brush a thumb along Lennox's bottom lip.

"Chris..."

There's something off in Lennox's voice that time and Chris can't quite figure out why. Because, Chris knows Lennox wants him, even drunk he can see it. His gaze falls to his thumb as it traces back and forth along Lennox's lip, so full and only slightly wet. Not like Julie's, but maybe even better because of that. And it's not... it's not like he's _actually_ married. Not yet anyway. They can have this, can't they? Just one last--

All the questions and unspoken persuasion is halted when Chris feels Lennox bat his hand out of the way and feels those lips pressed against his own. The kiss is sloppy and uncoordinated. Lennox tastes like Johnny Walker Black and cigarettes, thick and heady and Chris moans into it, his hand slipping to the back of Lennox's neck, holding him there as well as he can.

And, somewhere along the way, the glass of water tumbles to the floor.

 

 **iii. 1982**

"So, there's this guy, right?" Lennox continues and Chris doesn't even have to pretend like he's listening anymore, just lets his eyes drift shut and shifts on Lennox's bed, pushing the pillow into a better angle under his head, Lennox's voice, muffled and smooth above him. Not that Lennox would even notice if Chris wasn't listening. "And he's... fuck, man, he's _huge_. Some kind of giant or something. And I have no idea what he wants or why he's looking for me, but I can't get rid of him. And you're there, just... following me around, I guess. Sometimes. Not always, but kinda lingering or something, it's weird. Anyway, the guy's after me, chasing me everywhere and you've disappeared and I'm running through a street and the guy-- the guy get's fucking hit by a _semi_ , man. Just-- _BAM_! And the truck just keeps on going and I'm standing on the other side of the road, like, shittin' my shorts and the guy _gets up_ , man, just like-- like, the truck didn't even _dent_ him."

Chris gives a grunt to show that he's listening when Lennox pauses to finish off the joint and Chris peeks an eye open long enough to see a slow stream of smoke drift past Lennox's lips and up into the air above them.

"And _then_ , the guy sees me, like, like, like he can fuckin' _smell_ me or something and he starts after me again and then _BAM_. Hit by a school bus."

Chris gives a snort of a laugh at that and finally gets up the energy to lift his head up. "A school bus?"

"A school bus. _Full_ of kids, too. And then, suddenly you're there again with me and we're both just staring at this guy as he gets up again and--"

"Jim?"

"Mm?"

"Does this dream have a point?"

Lennox shifts on the bed and rolls onto his side and Chris can't help but grin at him when they're face to face. "Does any dream have a point, my friend?"

"Yeah. Usually. It's, like, uh... a Freud thing or something like that. I think."

"Oh, that guy was full of shit," Lennox says, his body twisting to stub out the joint before flopping down next to Chris again. "He was just some crazy German guy who had a crush on his mom and thought up a whole bunch of theories to make him sound like less of a freak."

"Austrian," Chris corrects him. "And it didn't work."

"What didn't work?"

"The freak thing," Chris says, suddenly starting to wonder just where the hell this conversation was headed.

"Oh yeah. No, it did not, my friend. I think he just needed to get high more often."

Chris lets out a laugh then, warm and low and finds himself moving closer, though he can't say why. "That's your solution to everything, though. Just get high."

"Well, it works. Marijuana cures cancer, you know. They've done studies."

Chris blinks. And, just that quickly, the entire mood changes. Or, at least it feels that way. The air goes cold and Chris feels Lennox immediately go tense beside him, sees his friend's eyes widen and fill with guilt, mouth opening in a hopeless attempt to take it back, lips working soundlessly. Lennox looks like a beached fish and Chris can't help it because, hell his _face_. His body bends, doubling over and his cheek mashing into the soft fabric of Lennox's t-shirt as he busts out into a full-throated laugh.

"Chris, man. Shit. I'm sorry, I wasn't really thinking, I swear," Lennox says anyway, babbling and Chris lifts his head after another moment to smile up at him, shoulders still shaking faintly, eyes tinged red. And, maybe it's the pot or the late night or the fact that it's his best friend in the entire world, but it's the easiest thing to just shift those last few inches and press lips to lips, Lennox still mumbling apologies and Chris still laughing softly, both sounds soon drifting away into quiet, needy moans.

 

 **iv. 1980**

Nothing about the day feels right. The sun's too bright, the air too warm, too cheerful. It's March in Ontario, which should mean dreary, overcast skies and non-stop, drizzling rain, not _sunshine_. Not this.

Chris clenches his hands together and holds them between his knees, shoulders hunched as the porch swing sways under his weight. His clothes feel crisp and stifling, his slacks freshly pressed so that there's a single crease from knee to foot on both legs, leading down to a pair of black dress shoes Mrs. Bucyk had gotten for him. He should feel grateful, probably, but he doesn't. Not really. After today, he doesn't want to wear them ever again. His shirt is just a little too big, the tails tucked inside the waistband of his pants, a dark tie draped over the front. Mr. Bucyk had helped him with that because his own father couldn't be bothered. Of course.

Remembering that, he gives a quick, bitter snort and sits back, the swing squeaking under the shift of his weight and he tips his head back, closing his eyes against too-bright sunshine, wishing the day would just be _over_ already.

He doesn't notice he's not alone anymore until he feels the swing shudder as someone drops down next to him.

"Man, this is a drag." Chris knows without even opening his eyes that it's Lennox. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed or grateful for his friend's presence and decides to just go with both, giving a non-committal shrug and a grunt that's neither agreement or disagreement. "Got some good food in there, though," he continues and Chris finally peeks one eye open and looks down to see Lennox offering him what looks like half of a ham sandwich. Just the sight of it makes him queasy and he shakes his head. Lennox arches an eyebrow, shrugs and then promptly shoves the sandwich into his own mouth and keeps talking. "Miffin' ou', man," he says around a mouthful of meat. "Hnn, if you--" Lennox cuts himself off and finally swallows. "If you don't want this, think I can take some home?"

Chris answers with a shrug, his head still back, staring at the porch ceiling above him. The boards are cracking up there and Chris wonders if they could snap at any time, if the swing would fall and the roof would cave in. Would it take the whole house down or just him and Lennox? Maybe it'd just kill him and Lennox would get away in time. Or maybe he'd just get hit in the face by a loose board and have to deal with a huge scar on his face for the rest of his life.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Chris says nothing and is both relieved and surprised when Lennox doesn't say anything else, letting silence fall between them again. It isn't really uncomfortable, but somehow Chris knows that Lennox is only thinking of something else to say, something that might make Chris smile or scowl or punch him. It's what Lennox does in times like this, tries to distract or lighten things up when all Chris wants to do is wallow.

And, all things considered, Chris is pretty sure he has the right to wallow right now.

So, he's even more surprised when, after a few minutes of silence, he feels the swing sway forward, lighter again, held down only by his own weight. He lifts his head, prepared to see Lennox heading back into the house, but instead sees Lennox right up in his face, a seriously scary devilish look in his eye that Chris knows intrinsically is a bad sign. And before he can question anything, he feels a press of lips against his own, dry and brief and accompanied with a muffled laugh before he gets a hand on Lennox's chest and pushes him away. _Hard._

"Man, what the _hell_?!"

Stumbling back, Lennox only grins at him as Chris lifts his hand, rubbing the back of it furiously across his mouth. "Great, now that you're out of your pity zone, let's go raid the dessert and see if we can steal some booze!"

Chris stares after his friend, dumbfounded. And, yet again, doesn't know whether to be pissed off, grateful, or amused.

But, as is pretty much always the case with Lennox, Chris decides to settle on all three.

 

 **v. 1972**

He hadn't _meant_ to do it.

Warily, he wraps one hand around one of the wooden slats and peers down, his eyes widening at the carnage hundreds of feet below, yellow and black plastic laying twisted and shattered in a crumpled heap.

"Oh," he says in quiet remorse before he feels a hard punch to his back, sending a shot of pain all through him.

He reels around and the hand hits him in the chest and then the stomach and the side of the neck before Chris has the good sense to start hitting back. "Hey!" he grumbles sharply and lunges, wrestling Jim to the ground so that they're a mess of arms and legs and shouts.

"You broke it!" Jim's shouts, his voice equally broken and Chris would feel worse except that Jim's elbow is currently digging into his _neck_.

"I'm _sorry_!" he tries to shout back, except it comes out as a gurgle and his body twists and squirms, finally managing to wrench Jim's arm away.

"You are not!"

"I _am_! I didn't mean to!"

And, it's clear that Jim doesn't believe him, not when there's a hand engulfing Chris's face, spread wide and half-smothering him, pressing his head back against the hard, wooden floor. "Jim!" he shouts, his voice high and strangled, muffled by Jim's palm. His legs thrash and he wiggles violently before finally settling on his last resort. A sound pushes from somewhere deep in his throat and he bares his teeth, twisting his neck and catching the skin between Jim's thumb and forefinger and biting down.

It works like a charm and a second later, Chris is able to wiggle his way to safety, knees skidding across the floor and breath heavy as he hunches forward, watching Jim like he could still attack at any second.

But, Jim's holding his hand against his chest, fingers curled slightly and head bowed, shoulders hitching and-- oh. Oh, he's--

Chris's face crumples, all his instinct to keep up his guard slipping away and replaced by guilt as he watches his friend. Part of him wants to insist that Jim'd had it coming, that Chris had only been trying to protect himself. It's not untrue but, he still feels bad.

His mouth twitches into a worried frown and he slides closer, still on his knees. Reaching out, he brushes a hand to Jim's arm and Jim immediately flinches away, curling further in on himself. "Jim?"

"Go 'way!"

Chris's shoulders sag and he almost gets up and leaves like Jim wants him to. Jim's mum will probably be mad at him, too, for breaking the truck and then hurting Jim. And she can get scary when she's angry, Chris doesn't want to deal with it. He gets up slowly, wincing at the pain in his chest, but after giving Jim another look, he stops.

It's a stupid idea, probably, but it always seems to work at least a little when his own mother does it. So, he steps closer to Jim and doesn't let him pull away this time. He takes Jim's hurt hand and it doesn't look so bad. There are tiny indents from his teeth, but there isn't any blood and Chris thinks maybe Jim will be okay even if the truck isn't. Bending forward, he lightly presses his lips right to the marks, closes his eyes and hopes it'll make it all better.

 **end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bohemian__storm and beta'd by dynamicsymmetry. Title courtesy of The Frames' song "Seven Day Mile". Initially posted [here](http://pianoforeplay.livejournal.com/11716.html) on 7/24/2008.


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